


when you gonna make up your mind?

by aesalon (firetan)



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fanart, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Late Night Conversations, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pre-Relationship, Wayhaven Week, Why is there a char tag for M!Detective and F!Detective but not Nonbinary Detective?, just a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetan/pseuds/aesalon
Summary: If they ignore the sting prickling along their arms, the cold sweat slowly evaporating from their forehead, it feels something close to peaceful. There's a sense of restfulness to it all. As though someone has laid a blanket over everything, put worries and frantic thoughts at ease and left existence to heal for a few hours.Wayhaven Week Day 1: Dawn
Relationships: Detective/Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	when you gonna make up your mind?

**Author's Note:**

> **CW: Mentions of self-harm, panic, needle phobia.**
> 
> Takes place during the nighttime LI scene in Book 2, so some of the dialogue will be familiar and other pieces new (hence the canon-divergence tag).  
> 
> 
> _**"When you gonna make up your mind?**  
>  When you gonna love you  
> as much as I do?"_  
> -Winter, by Tori Amos

_"Aah!"_

Bolting awake with a bitten-off scream, Nimuë arches forward with nails digging harsh lines into the skin of their forearms. Fabric twists and tangles around their legs as they gasp for air, choking down sobs. Panic swells like a tidal wave, threatening to overwhelm them for a few short moments that feel like agonizing hours. Their heart is going to burst, isn't it? They can't breathe. Oh, God, _they can't breathe._

The room is large and empty, but walls are closing in on them. Dark furniture takes on the countenance of twisted metal in the darkness, slick with phantom rain and something worse and dented by the ghosts of a battle. Something is sticking in, sticking in, _sticking in it's sticking and-_

Almost as quickly as they arrived, the emotions subside, and Nimuë collapses limp against their knees as they try to catch their breath.

Just another nightmare.

Damn it, can't they just go a full week without this shit? How many times are they going to wake up like this, too many memories and not enough solutions? Phantom needles stabbing in and-

Speaking of which, they glance down at their arms and wince at the sight of fresh reddened marks, a few managing to break the skin and draw blood. They sting, bloody and clean alike. Probably means it's time to trim their nails again, but that won't fix the cuts.

Farah had said the room was stocked with basic supplies, so maybe-

Getting out of bed takes a near-herculean effort, and their legs still feel a little like jelly, but Nimuë makes their way slowly over to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet yields little more than a plain antiseptic cream and some adhesive bandages, but that's enough for the worst spots. A part of Nimuë really wishes it were still spring, so they'd have an excuse to keep wearing long sleeves. Forget the vampires - who'll notice anyways, between their senses and Nimuë's blood - _Mum'll_ be upset if she sees them self-harming (again).

They really don't want her to be disappointed in them. Again. How long did they even make it this time? A few months?

A noise echoes from somewhere else in the warehouse and they flinch on instinct. Maybe it's some horrible monster lurking in the shadows, and- no, come on. The only 'monsters' here are Nimuë's friends, and they really don't want to go back to bed with that nightmare so fresh. So they plaster a few bandages over the worst of the scratches, grab their phone for a flashlight, and exit the room on tip-toe.

The noise resolves itself to a dull, rhythmic thumping that seems to be coming from the roof. Typically, Nimuë might find that frightening, but at this point they don't think they can feel much worse (what a lie, they've felt so much worse, there's a long ways down from here) so they just make their way through the empty hallways to a small panel that opens onto the flat, tiled roof. A light gust of cool night air hits them in the face, and they mourn the blankets left behind in their (borrowed) room. Their arms sting. The bandages tug, sticky on their skin, edges already beginning to roll. Their body feels wrong.

Morgan turns to look at them before they've even gotten all the way through the opening, her feet stilling in their apparent quest to turn the warehouse into a giant drum set. Even at the distance, the flare of her nostrils is visible, and her eyes hone in on Nimuë's arms unfailingly. Blood. Of course.

"... Guess I don't need to ask why you're up."

They really should've brought that blanket. "Just a bad dream." Climbing onto the roof is a little precarious, and Nimuë tries to suppress a shiver as they make their way over to sit beside the vampire.

She glances at them again, eyes sweeping across their body without the usual slow heat. (Nimuë remembers a little too late that she can tell when they're lying). "Didn't realize 'bad dreams' did that."

"... They, um. Don't." Nimuë winces, covering the plasters and scratches with a hand that doesn't quite manage to hide all the damage. "Mum's going to be so mad."

"What, at him?" Neither of them need to say the name.

Curling in over their knees, Nimuë shakes their head. "No, at me. I didn't even mean to do it this time, but a relapse is a relapse." Their eyes flick up to Morgan's, focusing on her freckles to distract from the cold. There are so many, dark constellations scattered across her skin. Beautiful. "Think you could keep this a secret? They'll fade away by morning."

Morgan makes a face. "... Don't see why I'd tell her in the first place. Not like you're a threat to yourself or anything."

"Yeah, you'd think." Before Morgan can respond, Nimuë brushes the topic aside (don't think about it, don't, that's already too much oversharing). "What about you? How come you're awake at-" They check their phone, grimacing, "-four in the morning?"

She shrugs. "I don't need to sleep as much as the others." As her eyes drift out towards the darkened tree-tops, something in her expression softens. "And it's nice, like this. Nothing going on, no people around - nothing but the stars awake in the world. Hard to find these sorts of moments alone, so I didn't want to miss it."

Repressing another shiver, Nimuë follows her gaze. They can see what she means - the night is quiet without feeling heavy or unnatural, the whole world seeming still. If they ignore the sting prickling along their arms, the cold sweat slowly evaporating from their forehead, it feels something close to peaceful. There's a sense of restfulness to it all. As though someone has laid a blanket over everything, put worries and frantic thoughts at ease and left existence to heal for a few hours.

Logically, they know that's not how it is at all. People are still awake around the world, whether in different time zones or working the graveyard shift. Nocturnal flora and fauna are thriving, owls hunting and morning glories preparing to open their blossoms before the sun rises. Even at night, everything is very much awake and alive, just in a slightly different way.

It's nice to think it's how Morgan describes, though. Usually, it wouldn't be. But right now, with her next to them, it is.

A flash of white catches their eye, and they blink down at the unlit cigarette between her fingers. "Were you going to smoke? I can leave..."

"You're fine, sweetheart." She glances at it with a slight frown before waving the thought away, though the cigarette stays in her hand. "I was going to, but... Don't need to right now, weirdly."

The way she puts it seems a little odd. "Why _do_ you smoke?"

Nimuë doesn't really expect a candid answer, so Morgan's calm shrug is a welcome surprise. "It's a habit I've had since I can remember." Considering the sky above them, she frowns as a wave of tension takes hold of her shoulders. "I've kept it up because it dampens my senses a little. They're... a lot to deal with, sometimes. Smoking just takes the edge off."

Ignoring the curl of horrified guilt in the pit of their stomach - how many times have they unthinkingly told her to stop smoking, now - Nimuë finds their gaze returning to the bandages on their arms. Focusing on the sting to ignore the rest of the wrongness. Focusing on their own pain so they don't have to think about anything else. "I get that. Bad habits... usually start to distract from something worse."

Morgan smirks, a wry comment evident on the tip of her tongue, but her eyes flicker over to Nimuë and her expression fades into something more thoughtful. "Talking from experience, sweetheart?"

"I-" No, dumbass, don't tell her. What a walking overshare. Shut the fuck up. Change the subject. Now. "-maybe. So you're more sensitive to stuff than the others?"

"Yes."

Nimuë frowns. "How come?"

"I have no idea." She shrugs, head tilting as a few birds begin to sing at the slight pink hue that's begun spreading into the sky. "Just happens sometimes. Vampires all get different strengths when they're turned - I got stuck with extreme senses and pheromones."

Rolling that over in their head, Nimuë lets the curiosity win out and leans a little closer. "Do you remember anything at all about being human?" It would be interesting to investigate whether there might be any correlation between the circumstances or factors involved in turning, and the cocktail of abilities received on the other side. Of course, it could be a testament to genetics as well, but Nimuë really doubts the agency will have any blood records from before Morgan and the others became vampires. And since vampire blood obviously differs biologically from that of humans, simply using current blood samples won't do either. So...

Morgan's lips quirk slightly, somewhere between amused and confused. "Hate to derail your train, but no. Just being a vampire. Don't even remember who turned me or anything like that." Her expression falls still once more. "Being with the agency is the first memory I truly have."

"How long ago was that?"

Her face twitches, seeming conflicted for a moment, before candor prevails. "About a hundred years, give or take a decade. You tend to lose track of time once you're immortal."

Nimuë snorts, glancing over at her with an absent smile. "Hope I look as good as you when I'm that old."

"Considering how you look now, I doubt you have much to fear there." Morgan returns with a wry grin, in a manner less like flustering heat and more low-bubbling warmth. Her eyes twinkle almost playfully, something lurking at the edges where it can't be named.

"Oh, please. We both know I'm average at best." Nimuë rolls their eyes. "So that stuff at the carnival..."

"I honestly have no idea what that was."

Gold creeps across the forest, inching out the stars ever-so-slowly, and Nimuë stares out at the sea of color without knowing what else to say. Even if Morgan doesn't know what that was, it looked real. And judging by what they'd seen of Falk and his kind, Nimuë's pretty confident in the theory that those images must have come from the memories that Morgan's lost. Which...

They flinch, recalling the agonized screams that had torn through the air before Falk made his first appearance. So much blood, enough that Morgan's feet had been slipping through it on the floor. Stark walls, dirty cloth, _those screams-_ Whatever that was, maybe it's better that Morgan can't remember it. Maybe it'd be better if she never, ever remembers.

(Nimuë never, ever wants to hear her make that sort of sound again. Even if they have to dirty their hands for it to be so.)

Morgan's eyes flicker to them, then back to the sky. "You should go back to sleep, if you can. You'll be no use if you can't keep your eyes open."

The thought of sleeping again (of dreaming again) brings back all of the tension they've managed to lose while talking to her, and Nimuë grimaces in spite of themself. It's a perfectly reasonable point, and yet- "I'd rather be here, with you."

Than alone and scared, they don't say.

Whether or not she understands remains unclear. But her shoulders relax ever-so-slightly, and she waves a hand shortly in their direction. "You can get closer. I'm not gonna bite- well," Her lips curl into a proper smirk, "unless you ask."

"Actually, I am kind of curious about that." Scooting along the roof until they're almost hip-to-hip with her, Nimuë grabs hold of the topic change like a lifeline. "Some human fiction has this thing where being bitten by a vampire is supposed to be- y'know, super erotic. Triggering dopamine production and all that, or works like an aphrodisiac, or- a whole lot of weird stuff. I didn't-"

They don't manage to avoid the full-body shudder this time, and Morgan glances at them as they continue. "-didn't feel anything like that when Murphy-" Something in their throat constricts. "-but I don't know if it's something that never happens, or just didn't happen then."

Morgan hums, kicking one foot idly. "Not the first I've heard of that. Can't say it's come up much in bed - I have other ways of getting a good response. Sounds a little like someone just got the wrong idea about our pheromones, to be honest."

"Maybe." Exhaling softly, Nimuë looks out at the point where the sun is beginning to peek over the trees. "So it wouldn't work on me, anyways."

"Disappointed?"

They shrug. "I figure I'll revisit the concept if I want to. Sex isn't really in the cards for me anyways, at the moment."

The conversation pauses, and when Nimuë looks back at Morgan it's to find the vampire already gazing at them. Her lips twitch for a moment before she speaks. "Is that how it is?"

"I don't really want sex with anyone without some sort of emotional relationship first." They fiddle with one of the bandages, picking at the edges and letting the sting as they tug the injury flood through their veins. Why they're telling her, they don't know, but they're sleep-deprived and low on filter and honesty is an important policy. Maybe. Presumably. "Which usually means I never want it."

Morgan considers them, expression neutral. "That 'usually' leading somewhere, sweetheart?"

"Well, I think I wouldn't mind it with you, eventually." That much is easy to admit, since it's something they both know quite well. Would've been hard to hide it, after what happened in the library. Nimuë still feels like they need to apologize to Nat, even after she waved them off the first time. "But the emotions are more important to me than sex. I can't feel comfortable with it without there at least being something else first." Make sure this whole thing isn't some terrible mistake. On their part or hers.

"Like what?"

Nimuë frowns. "I don't know. Asking for anything of that sort would be presumptuous."

They expect some sort of agreement or sly response, but Morgan remains quiet and pensive, eyes narrowed as she looks at them. Almost thoughtful, in her odd way. "... Not sure I see what's presumptuous about asking for something you want."

And isn't that just Morgan all over?

"Of course you don't." Stifling a laugh (not bitter, not at all), Nimuë refocuses their eyes on the horizon. Their eyelashes stick together and they blink in a futile attempt to clear their vision. Suddenly, the tiredness feels overpowering. "It's not like asking for a fling, or a one-night thing, or even just... a favor. I can't ask anyone to feel a certain way about me. The only thing I can do is be honest about my own feelings, and hope the people around me respond in kind."

Morgan huffs a sigh that doesn't sound as grouchy as her usual, squinting as the sun starts to come up properly. "What feelings are those, then?"

And there's the crux of the whole issue, isn't it? A whole lovely culmination of all the problems they've left festering since college, since Eva and Bobby and moving back home to never leave. Sometimes this town closes in around them like so many prison bars, decorated in pine needles and old cobblestone roads. But without assurances of work, or friends, or community - where else can Nimuë go? What else do they have? Everyone they'd built up around them is gone now - back at school, back in their own lives, off chasing their futures while Nimuë is just here, stagnating. Working a police uniform because music can't pay bills. Because they can't save people with songs.

They drop their head against Morgan's shoulder, light as paper, and feel her twitch at the touch. She says nothing, and doesn't move away, so they lean a little more weight into the contact and let their shoulders slump. Fingers brush against their shoulder and settle into place, neither heavy nor light. Simply there.

"I'm not sure I trust myself to know anymore."

* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> Am I a bad writer for making Morgan not horny? In my defense, she's not in this scene in canon! I have an excuse and it's not just that I'm really bad at writing horniness!
> 
> Also, I promise I had this written yesterday, but there's art that took me until midnight to do... rip.
> 
> Detective Info:  
>  _Nimuë Eirene Levin / Nim_  
>  23 Years Old  
> Nonbinary, They/Them pronouns


End file.
